


she's of the highest substance

by yellowsuns



Series: ShuriShelby [2]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Cheating, Crossover, F/M, Mild Language, Tommy is still confused, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 14:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20547683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowsuns/pseuds/yellowsuns
Summary: Tommy arranges to meet with the daughter of the leader of one of the town's renowned guerrilla fight clubs. It's too bad her father has mentioned all fair warnings about the gangster, but she's not too fond of the idea of backing down. So she gives him a number.And a room.





	she's of the highest substance

**Author's Note:**

> Long-overdue. Still needs editing. But I need this out of my system lmfao.

* * *

Elegance is a statutory substance of incomparable class, and she wears it to the tips of her fingers and to the finer coils of her hair. Not once has she let the demeanour slip, and Tommy likes to think he understands women better now than he ever has. But a certain type of danger rings from her bracelets and the swing of her earrings. Like she’s some siren calling to his inner most desires… and he very much doesn’t like to show that part of him. In fact, he’s become quite an expert when it comes to the hidden parts of him that very few like to think they understand. Really, anybody who has ever come close has died. That leaves no one else that comes to mind other than Grace. He likes to put himself through chambers of torture and wring his mind dry of any compassion he left for dead since the tunnels. Right up in that fucking bleak mid-winter.

Its not that he likes to revisit the horses and the shrilling shells and the barking war dogs. Neither does he like himself talking to himself about himself that makes Ada eye him with careful worry. Often times in several blue devils he’s drunk himself dry of any blood left in his body to function on normalcy. No, normalcy is a luxury to Tommy Shelby.

He can’t even look at his kids and feel a fatherly inkling of how to best love them. He doesn’t deserve that luxury either. Instead, he seems rather keen on letting Lizzie do that, in spite of every ounce of history of connection he has with her, no matter what kind of love Lizzie thinks he’s capable of, he’s not much a believer of it. Of anything really.

On the other hand, maybe the Gypsy blood could let him fucking breathe. Many a thing signed to his name and not an inch of any indication there could be reason for life to sprout anywhere in the next two lifetimes for the Shelby’s.

_“We shake hands with devils, and we walk past them.”_

Yet, perhaps an idea that has Polly muttering curses has his deepest tenacity for tragedy and bloodshed fluttering to life, as opposed to its flutter ready for death. A meeting with the renowned daughter of the revered leader of the guerrilla clubs could be some sort of distraction. Maybe a salvation. A martyr. One he would so love to corrupt. There’s else his cock does to survive other than sputtering bullets to no end, is that it usually fails him in directing his choices to a good one. So not technically dead, but either way a bad end.

“Miss. Udaku,” he prompts. The lithe way she swivels around to face him meets him with a startle at how undeniably stunning she is, and oh how cunningly his cock crows at shiny, pretty things. 

“Yes?” she hums, gives him a once-over and turns back to a warm whiskey too manly for such a dame as her. Though perhaps, there was something about the way her fingers knew the grip around her glass that makes him wonder what woes or sadness has resorted her to the familiar hold of such a numbing poison. But just as she raises the glass to her lips, she pauses before licking her lips, and she glances back to him. His eyes catch on the little pink muscle that lathers her lips moist and fuck all if they’re watching; he wants to kiss her. Wants to suckle on the honey drops from her lips, wants to gauge a whine from the feel of her mouth and perhaps he wants to die then, and there.

He likes the way she breathes. Like she’s holding every inhale accountable for gracing her lungs. Because he can see it in the slight snarl on the corner of her lips and the slight decree in her eyes at how arbitrarily disgusting Small Heath is. It truly was the wrong place for such a dame as her.

It’s as if she knows exactly what she’s doing to rile him up, but how does she carry enough capacity in her little, petite body to overthrow any ounce of will he staggers as he might to keep from fucking up. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

He’ll play her little game, or whatever scheme she’s been put up to. It almost drives him mad, because for once he wants to enjoy the finer things of fidelity, and maybe such a thing deserved to be warranted down turned looks and disapproving snarls from his family, let alone Lizzie. The slight tanned line around his ring finger is enough proof for him. He just wants a simple fuck here and the chance to just release there. On her. In her. With her. Against her. Wherever she likes.

“The town talks about you Mr Shelby,” she utters, and his name throws a little punch to his stomach at how smooth and heavily accented it sounds melodically to his ears, making him want to prick at his underpants for relief. Christ almighty the woman has done nothing but glance at him and said his name.

“The town tends to talk about things they know nothing about,” he replies. Nodding to the bartender who knows his order too well and he almost wants to smirk just to drive his ego home.

“And pray tell what are these … things they know nothing about?” she asks, and she still hasn’t looked at him again since he pressed up against the bar beside her.

He takes a lungful and wants to play coy, wants to be that teenage boy again who ran amuck with Johnny and strived to be a nuisance his mother and even his Aunt Polly could bear to look at again, because that’s how she makes him feel. But the bible talks of grown up thoughts for grown up works and he hopes to the devil that he doesn’t let this slide, not once from his grasp of whatever the woman stirs inside him.

“I don’t know,” he reaches forward to accept his glass, a moonshine whiskey, warm and dry.

“What have you heard?” he asks after a pause. After he realises, she probably has no interest to continue the conversation and he feels at a loss for anything really that she could just drop a civil conversation with her mere silence. Usually, silence for Tommy Shelby brings about chaos a plenty. And what follows from her mouth makes him want to vomit for having such thoughts about the young woman. Fuck her, he wants to know what kind of shit people have been feeding her about him. Not that he wants to care what they think, but for once he’d like to pretend that he does care. Even if it’s at the expense of losing control. Preferably in a room, on a bed, with her naked and above him, writhing in pleasure from his hard cock sinking deep into her tight walls.

“My father talks lowly of you.”

Well, fuck.

“Really?” he breathes, swallowing his pride dry with his liquor.

Though it’s when she swallows back the rest of her drink with more vigour than the Russian princess could ever dare to muster. He eyes her with stilling desperation as she wraps her fur coat around her shoulders with a peak of delectable skin teasing his eyes and his mouth for a taste.

“But… there’s one thing no one talks about apart from how your cock hasn’t fallen yet from fucking every single lass you cross paths with,” she muses, a flare of disinterest in the way she waves her hand about and he catches how slender and impeccably enticing her gestures are. Almost as if she was swinging a coin in pendulum before his eyes and like dry wood to a flame, he catches afire from her touch alone. But she hasn’t touched him yet. And he wants her above him while he has the world under his feet, and in that moment, he wants to be certain that perhaps only one of those things could very well happen. He’s not particularly akin to the feeling of doubt at the latter.

“Is that envy that I detect Ms. Udaku?”

“No,” she taunts, leaning closer against him and the smell of her essence is not enough and yet fulfilling to him alone not to grab her in his hands and debase every single wrong thought out of his system.

“Ambition, Mr Shelby.”

He cocks his head to the side, truthfully confused with her enamouring bait. She walks past him and is out of the bar before he can turn to survey which direction she took; he reaches into his pocket to pay for his drink when the bartender stops him with a hand.

“Courtesy of the Udaku Enterprise sire.”

She’s paid for his fucking drink.

“Did she pay you to say that to me?”

“Only to the ones she likes sire.”

With that the bartender turns his back to tend to his rows of glassware, while he exhales with a scoff and a new found tick that makes his fingers twitch, and a small tissue falls from the wooden counter top to the side of his shoe. There, penned in the most elegant of cursive calligraphy is her room number for the hotel suite just across his petty Garrison pub.

His skin prickles at just how close to home her nails are starting to sink to, and maybe the exact moment is so clear to him that it reminds him instantaneously of his predispositions to take a form of a glacier that doesn’t fucking move for the sake of being prodded by the prospect of love, and he’d go to great lengths to avoid that. But its been years since the last woman who has ever roused such a tug to his truly cold and uncompromising tendencies to take the form of a heart.

But first, a good fuck.

* * *

_“Polly?”_

_His aunt heavily sighs with dejection and turns her canny little head around._

_“What Thomas?”_

_He looks at her pointedly, his Catholic name doing a twist in his chest for how unpleasantly cringing it sounds from her cracked lips._

_“I think I’m interested in fight clubs now Polly-“_

_“Oh for fuck’s sake your interests are about as wet as your cock gets for anything shiny that moves.”_

_Right then. _

_His aunt has got him down to a ‘T’ since he was a wee lad, and that fact has always mangled him dry every time she thumps him in his place with mere words. He raises a brow at her, and she raises hers in a duel, and perhaps, like always, he stands down._

_“Find me anything you can about the Udaku family.”_

_With that he throws his pen on the desk, dragging his chair back with a leech against the wooden floorboards, and stomps his way to his coat. His aunts’ omniscient gaze of, would he even call it infuriation holds no power to stop him._

_Perhaps, only a number and a room might have the means to end him._


End file.
